


us stargazing hylians, we never get much done

by sm0kersmoker



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Also they're hylians, Can be considered, Established Relationship, Experimental, Fluff, Gen, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Romance, exploring hyrule, older kirishima n bakugou, or not// depends on u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sm0kersmoker/pseuds/sm0kersmoker
Summary: Bakugou and Kirishima explore the kingdom of Hyrule. Set before 'Link's awakening'





	us stargazing hylians, we never get much done

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the fact that bakugou likes mountain climbing and BOTW is full of things to climb
> 
> you could read this as established relationship or not, so I added the tag. Personally i read it as w/out, but honestly it could be implied i really don't care whatever makes u happy u-u
> 
> This work has not been beta-ed because i do not have a beta-reader. Sorry about any mistakes that come through to the publish.

They make their home shoe-warm, leather worn down to an old smell, seams split and heels clipped from insatiable wanderlust, and when winter comes Bakugou will pass him deer furs to patch up the cold that bites at his toes. The forest greets a chilly wind with brittle branches - breeze whistling a language only the birds may know - and Kirishima’s voice is lost in the sound of rain, or hail, or whatever it is raining down on their covered heads as Bakugou’s hand curls around his wrist and pulls them into the shelter of a broad fir. When falling ice blocks out every other noise all he can hear is his heartbeat, warm and loud and thrumming to the beat of the blizzard as it rests patched into blushing skin and warm hands. Then the weather clears, and then blue skies, and then they go hunting. 

Sometimes when their arrows nock to their bowstrings Kirishima feels the sound in his bones - like the hum of their noise in the quiet of the mountains is a melody waiting to be sung aloud. The deer across from their line of sight are soft-eyed and warm bodied, the blood beating in their hearts unafraid because Bakugou’s knuckle-white grip is snow covered, hair frosting at the tips, boots and britches knee deep in Lanayru snow before he lets fly the arrow and a thud follows. 

_Cut along there. _

_I know where!_

Bakugou’s eyes are a sharper red than his own. Their knives slice through the deer meat cleanly and they pack the flesh with ice.

_But you keep getting it wrong. _

* * *

Long, long ago, there was a prophecy. 

Neither of them remember much else beside a princess in a castle and a boy in a well, or a chasm, or a cave beneath some shining hill where prophecies usually pertain to.  Bakugou’s not into that kind of thing, Kirishima knows, but his indifference is strange to consider when there so clearly lies a challenge in the oracles words when she denies all but the rightfully chosen champion. 

_We have all the time in the world, _Kirishima says to him once, when they trek up the Akkala Highlands. The clouds that back these viridian hills are gentle monoliths that pass each other with an aching slowness almost reverent to watch. _So why not try and save it? _

Bakugou swivels his head and the climbing gear strapped to his waist moves with him.

_What, do YOU want to?_

_Just seems like something you’d be into, _Kirishima shrugs. _Like a challenge. _

_I’ve already got a challenge. _

There is a hill just at the base of Deep Akkala Bakugou has not yet named - they’ve never climbed it before, and Kirishima’s thighs burn with a familiar soreness that somehow brings him to his feet rather than slows him down. Bakugou’s eyes glimmer with hard prospect, set on a peak that he can’t see, mouth turned to a grimace meant to be a grin, paces his jaunty walk to a careful stride when they start on an incline.

_Besides, _he calls out to Kirishima as they begin, _I’m not going to cheat that kid with a head-start, you hear me? _

Kirishima laughs. The sound is lost to the heat and the rustling of their satchels against their tilted backs, and the wind that picks up under their ears and guides their footing.

_I hear you._

* * *

Winter in Hateno village packs his wounds with frost and chocolate. His bandages are a dull maroon, painted flakes of bleeding spread out like roots across covered pallid skin. 

The night is red today. Bakugou’s hands are pulling at new wraps and water and medicine so angrily it’s hard to tell whether the cold towel helps or harms. Their room is warm with tension, echoing the awkward silence punctuated by the drip of water and hands brushing hands, and then skin, and then Bakugou’s fingers wrap themselves round Kirishima’s wrist to tug him forward like a hostage. 

His snarl is strangely soothing - hits the right notes with a low tone, the barest hint of teeth at his upper lip, a sound escaping his mouth Kirishima is all too desperate to hear in its welcome familiarity. That leads to, then, not hearing what Bakugou’s said at all because his fingers take Kirishima’s heartbeat between index and thumb; he could listen to its complicated thrum if he took a moment to still.

_Sorry. _Kirishima turns his head. _What did you say?_

_I said fuck you. _his hands are shaking. The gauze slips between fingers. _Fuck you. _

_Yeah. _Kirishima’s grin is sheepish. _I deserve that. _

He can still smell his own flesh burning in the night air. It’s funny how bright the sky can get in guardian territory- like a field of stars bursting with vibrant light, all its shining reverence without the harmony of song. Only the sound of their spider crawl remains, a metallic grinding of their bodies like a singular machine as they drench the mire beneath their claws in ancient rust. Only the blazing heat of their rays pulsating with an energetic harnessed thousands of years ago and the smell of burning grass like a perfume for the air.

_Fuck you. _

Bakugou cuffs his head and holds it there, grasping his hair in a tight grip, holding him stiffly as the bleeding stops and the blood dries and the smell of their fear- ridden sweat is lost to their steady breathing. At a loss for words, there come the actions of his own hands- hesitant at first to reach for the fingers twined into red hair, taking them slowly, feeling the callouses, squeezing them for temporary reassurance.  


_I’m okay. _he says.

_Damn right you are. _Bakugou says back.

* * *

Few guardians cover the Gerudo desert. That, at least, sets Bakugou at ease when they surf it on their shields and watch the day’s haze settle orange at their shoulders and reddening towards the late afternoon. They say there’s a town full of secrets straight across from the oasis- past that, ancient beasts that protect Leviathan bones half buried in the baked dunes. Either way they don’t have the tech to frame those images - it was lost long ago to a war they grew up without. 

Their spaulders hit the base of a drying corpse that cages a fairy fountain. Here is where the sandstorm hits the hardest - grit-filled rage and speckled pain to whip their bodies in glittering gold if they can’t run for cover soon enough. The leviathan’s ribs make a good shelter for now; the glowing shrine more so despite its rigidly sealed entrance. They make do with what cover it provides, knees knocking and shoulders bumping roughly as the sand splits their skin in its ferocity, and Bakugou pulls their heads in together like somehow that would help any. 

_Feels like we could die here. _Kirishima mouths. _Like technically we’d be a corpse in a corpse. Right?_

Bakugou’s lips twist into a smirk.

_Stupidest thing you’ve said all day._

* * *

Bakugou always fights like they’re running out of time. Never holding back, never backing down, eyes lit up like a furnace and hands clenched white-knuckled till the dust clears. When all that’s left are the fangs and bones his fur coat meets the dirt and there’s gold on the floor, and even if they’re both panting like the near-dead Bakugou is the one who stands up first. He staggers to Kirishima’s beaten body like a stal, chest heaving breaths to accommodate the both of them. 

Most of the time, it’s because they’re reckless. Two against the nest of Lizalfos guarding an underwater secret; or two against an abandoned fortress infested with Moblins; or one, that one time Kirishima woke up late to the tinkling footsteps of Wizzrobes as lightning struck the sky in pallid lines on a cold night. Bakugou had let fly a flurry of arrows and the frayed middle of his bowstring said it all, and the scars and the glow in his eyes, and his silhouette melded into the tower’s early morning shadow. It takes a while to climb but Kirishima gets there soon enough, hands rubbing sores and tucking his scarf around his neck tighter as the wind blows a cold breath along both of their faces.

_There’s something here. _He motions to the center, an indent asking to be filled, its crevices worn down by time and rain and the beating orange sun. _What d’you think it does?_

_Nothing. _Bakugou scoffs, but he traces the stone anyways, grips the old edge and pours his frustration into the square gap that won’t answer. _Can’t do anything about it if we’re not destined to, right? _

_It’s all about destiny. _

He sits to face the sun and he looks lonely. Across from him the valleys curve to meet a blue horizon; the sun draws a gold line around his silhouette and colours crowd his hair in white light. Kirishima takes a step forward, doesn’t know if he’ll look the same, pushes his feet over the stone edge into the crisp air and whistling wind, their shoulders knocking into each other like they were just that fragile.

As the sun rises their bodies lean into each other in dark shades, over the grooves and curves of the weather worn floor until the clouds sweep the morning of its early orange glow and their shadows meld into one.

* * *

One day, Bakugou stretches himself beneath the stars. They’ve got a warm fire blooming in the background, satchels slumped together at a makeshift bench a little moulded over by the rain. It’ll take a few more days but their bags are filled with enough rupees to buy a house - done at Kirishima’s insistence and Bakugou’s begrudging nod. To be honest, it didn’t take too much persuading at all.

_It’s a place to call home. _Kirishima says, taking the empty spot beside him, slipping off his shoes to feel the grass curl against his soles.

_Don’t make me say it, dumbass. _Bakugou snorts, shifts a little, points out Orion when Kirishima’s settled down properly. 

_You know, if you connect those, it looks like a giant rupee. _

_T_ _hat’s the Molduga we beat._

_Looks more like a sleeping horse. What about over there? _

_Lynel sword._

_Oh and this one- _Kirishima curls his fingers round Bakugou’s wrist, pulls him to a side he can’t see on the far right, feels his eyes squint and wander. _Looks like you. Watch my _finger.

It’s a stupid thing to say in the darkness. Not like Bakugou would be able to see him contour his star-face, angry eyebrows, sharp chin, spiky hair. They fall silent as Kirishima concentrates, Bakugou’s breath tickling his neck, half leaning over him to watch. When he’s done with the portrait he exhales, slumps back into the grass, watches Bakugou’s eyes pinpoint the air Kirishima was drawing in before flickering back to his face.

_This is dumb. _he says. _We could be hunting for supplies, idiot. Blood moon’s out tomorrow._

_You sat down first. _Kirishima protests, shoving him away, watches as he hits the grass with a tired sigh. 

_Sure, _comes his disgruntled nod. 

The fire crackles like a white noise. It fills their silence with cicada song, in the distance a wolf howl, further out the creaking of bones erupting from the dirt. Bakugou’s eyes are rimmed with sleepless nights- fluttering shut, he’s a rare sort of peaceful Kirishima is happy to witness. In the dark, everything feels like a dream. 

_Goodnight, _he says.

* * *

Kirishima sleeps like a log.

Bakugou knows because he always wakes up first, to the sound of soft breathing and rolling around before sittng up with his hair wet with the smell of petrichor and dew, watches two ants marching along his ankle before they meet their doom. The grass twines along Kirishima’s forearm when he turns - the field looks like it’s trying to swallow him up, slowly, take him into the earth and keep him there forever. 

Their hunting gear is wet too. Stupid to sleep under stars, Bakugou berates, but it’s too late for that when he replaces a frayed bowstring and his knee knocks against his claymore and it shakes with water. If it drizzled, they must’ve slept through that too. 

In the morning the hills slope with a simple elegance untarnished by monsters. Horses graze the field in little spots, trees growing to match Hinox size, traveling wanderers letting their hoarse morning voices sing into the open air. Bakugou thinks about the mountain just past a passerby’s hiking gear and drops back onto the grass to tell Kirishima about it,

-but silently. Because he’s sleeping, and the day is new, and Bakugou shuts his eyes to the quiet of a gentle morning that doesn’t smell like blood yet, hasn’t started to sore yet, hasn’t wore him down. Those are good things - but there’s anticipation in the quiet that he relishes. 

Kirishima stirs and Bakugou’s hand finds itself inexplicably curled into soft, red hair. 

_Good morning, _he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, kudos make me happy uvu


End file.
